Once a Thief
by HFS
Summary: What does Ron keep in that little black box? Harry intends to find out. HPRW Chap. 2 up
1. Once A Thief

Title: Once a Thief Rating: pg-13 Pairing: harry/ron of course Summary: ron has a box that he doesn't think harry knows about. Harry knows. A/N: this fic goes against some hypotheses and reservations I have about the characters, but I think I'll use this version of them. forgive this story, it is a midnight tale. Shivers. Note to self: do not listen to stairway to heaven backwards in a dark, silent house.  
  
Once a Thief  
  
Like any hormonal boy in the history of forever, Harry Potter spent a lot of time thinking about sex. He thought of it as he passed the more attractive girls in the corridors, a nice little quickie on the stairs. He thought of it at night, and whispered epic tales of romance and passion into his pillow. All his sexual fantasies could be divided into three distinct categories. Category A was girls. So far, he had boffed Hermione, Ginny, Cho, Parvati, Padma, Parvati and Padma, Hannah, Lavender, Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Susan, Luna, and that Slytherin fifth year. You know, the one with the hair. In any case, girls comprised about 10% of Harry's fantasies. Category B was blokes. Harry had ravished an imaginary Seamus, Neville, and even that porphyrogene bastard, Malfoy. Each of these was only a one-night stand. Well, he thought of Neville during tea time one day, but whatever, just the once. So these were about 1% of Harry's total conquests, he wasn't a total...shirt-lifter or something. The rest of his pretend sex was all one Category C, though he may as well call it Category R because it's only one person in Category C, and that's Ronald Weasley.  
  
Harry estimates that he averages about a score of cuddles with Ron a day, twelve make-out sessions, a blowjob or six, and the occasional hardcore in-the-out-door sex. Not to mention the chills that shake Harry's spine whenever Ron laughs, or smiles, or sneezes.  
  
Or exists.  
  
And of course, Ron is with Harry all the time, so he can't hardly get through classes without popping a boner, and Harry recalls at least a gazillion times when he has to walk through the corridors with his books strategically in front of his hips, because robes aren't nearly as concealing as you think. It is thus that we find Harry Potter, walking down to the Gryffindor common room from dinner, after a particularly sweaty and kinky (chocolate frogs galore) bout of mental sex with Ron, who has a knowing grin as Harry keeps his books elevated in front of certain rigid parts of his anatomy. Harry blushes apologetically, and Ron proceeds to transform Harry into a pile of mush by running his hand through his longer than ever hair, something he does several times a day.  
  
You can just see notes written in quill on Ron's left arm (he is right-handed), notes that contain pitiful excuses for phrases, little wordstrings like "full gear", "hammock", and "bedridden, 1 eye open". Harry and Hermione enquire after the notes almost daily, and Ron finds a way to explain that "green bathrobe" is what his father wants for his upcoming birthday, and that's all, okay Hermione?  
  
Harry started noticing these notes-to-self about the same time he found himself wakened by intense scribbling from Ron's bed, followed by three clicking sounds of varying length, and a metallic percussion, and then more clicks. Harry has never asked Ron about this, because he's fairly sure that it concerns the black safe that Ron keeps hidden under his bed where he thinks nobody sees it. But Ron can't fool Harry, who has a lingering Dursley-habit of tidying up the Gryffindor Sixth-year boys' dormitory every other week or so. He never moves the box though, so Ron remains oblivious to Harry's lack of obliviosity. Oblivious-ness. Hmph. Anyway, Harry knows about the box, and the next chance he gets, he's gonna find out what it is.  
  
But the next chance is far from soon, Harry thinks, Hermione has bullied Ron and Harry into doing their Divination homework, although she can't see how they deal with that Trelawney scrud, honestly. Harry is working on his rune-casting, but Ron is stuck on his astrology. He scribbles some numbers and mathematical symbols on what looks like a regular sheet of parchment. Then he taps it with his wand and the parchment acts exactly as a pocket calculator and does whatever operation Ron has written down. He looks at his results and frowns, then announces with a furrowed brow and tired sigh that he shall have to go up to the Astronomy Tower to re-do his readings, sodding wonderful. Unless there really is a second sun in the Solar system, in which case Ron is kicking some starchart ass. Harry offers to go with him but Ron declines, and Hermione wants Harry off to bed anyway, Ron be damned for his ignorance. Harry notes, as Ron saunters off, that Ron is risking running into Dean (who is returning from a clandestine grope-fest with Padma) unless he looks up from writing on his arm. Which he does, just in time.  
  
Obediently, Harry bounds up the stairs and changes into his pyjamas, and almost pulls the covers over himself before he catches himself. This is the next chance he gets, he has to find out.  
  
Feeling a little bit foolish, Harry dons his invisibility cloak, because you can never be too careful. If anyone sees him, or rather, a floating black safe, they'll think that it's just those ghosts fooling around, whatever. Hands trembling, Harry pulls the box out from under Ron's bed, and his heartbeat is traveling somewhere around hummingbird speed, adrenaline turning the thump thump into a bass hum. He twiddles with the turning lock; it goes up to 117, arbitrarily. First, he tries a few random numbers, 13-7-69, not expecting anything to come of them. He tries the Chasers from the Chudley Cannon's numbers, and gives a sigh of exasperation when Ron fails to meet the requirement of having an easily predictable safe combination. He sits there, dumbstruck, and then tries magic. Alohomora doesn't work, so he does a little transfiguration, but the cookie jar is hard to break and has a lock on it also. He turns it back into a safe, miffed. So, he sets up a little systematic spell that quickly tries every combination, starting with 1-1-1, and working its way up. As he watches at the cyclonic wheel spin, he mentally smashes his head in with a hammer.  
  
Birthdays, you flamin' idiot. Harry spins the wheel to the tune of 1- 3-80, Ron's birthday. Nope. 1-4-78 is the twins', but no; failure. He tries the rest of the Weasleys', Hermione's, as well as Ron's first day at Hogwarts (1-9-91) before he remembers that on one July day; his mother had to dilate 10 centimeters too. Harry gives a little gasp as 31-7-80 proves to be the magic matrix that opens up the black box.  
  
The box most certainly has an expanding charm on it; Harry could fit half his school trunk in here if the door was big enough. It's mostly papers, no, wait, drawings. Harry feels guilty; he didn't know Ron could draw. Then he feels even guiltier, because he didn't know that Ron could DRAW!  
  
No exaggeration, these pictures are the best in the entire universe times forever to the infinitieth power, and then some. Crayon landscapes of the Hogwarts grounds, watercolors of the giant squid, pencil sketches of Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry. These pieces of parchment that he could use as a mirror seem to be newer and in much greater number than all the other pictures put together to Harry. In a moment of revelation and epiphany, Harry connects the arm notes with these pictures. The bathrobe is certainly not for Arthur, as Ron claims, because Harry is wearing the emerald garment, and nothing else in this drawing here. Other pictures Harry connects to the arm notes surface. Harry in a hammock wearing swimming trunks. Harry lying on a bed with one green eye open, his ocular orb the only splash of color in a charcoal grey sketch. The next picture, Harry asleep on his homework, spatters of ink on his face.  
  
And this is what Ron's arm meant by full gear, Harry sees himself in formal robes with the Gryffindor sword at his side. 'The sword, for drawing power circles', Harry remembers from a book on magic artifacts. Picture-Harry is also sporting a belt with the black handled knife for defense from evil, and the white handled knife for cutting herbs. He is also wearing a pentacle amulet, and of course he clutches his wand in his right arm.  
  
All these almost innocent pictures were enough for Harry, but then he stumbles upon the part of the box that has far more desirable drawings. Harry arouses as he sees his pencil self lying naked with a certain (similarly unclad) redheaded best friend on a picnic quilt in a field somewhere, neglected sandwiches in the top left corner reflecting Ron's peculiar sense of humor. Harry moans as he comes across a very detailed sketch of Ron and himself covered in the special sheen of sweat that comes (no pun intended), only with the throes of passion. Harry is about to check out a particularly romantic looking one of him and Ron on a beach when his stealthy raiment is pulled off him. Harry looks up, and sees a visibly scared-to-death Ron (back from all the fun with Sinistra) towering above him. Before Harry can get a word out, Ron snatches the pictures from Harry's hands, and Harry does not fail to notice the salty drops of sorrow that fall, smudging pencil, onto the parchment from blue eyes. Harry sits, thunderstruck, like in a coma, as Ron picks up his art and his breathing becomes more and more ragged. Word-silence is broken.  
  
"Sorry." Ron mutters. Oh, Ron, what the fuck are you talking about, this is exactly what Harry wants! Besides, this is still some friggin' amazing art, look, Fuseli drew scary shit but he did it well, he didn't apologize for the theme, the style was too good. Harry wants to voice this to Ron, but his voice is in his stomach, paying his heart a little visit. Ron, on the other hand, finds no problem speaking what he thinks at the moment.  
  
"I know it's sick of me, I mean you don't like me like that or anything and I can't believe I ever did this it was so stupid and I'm sorry but I can't make it stop and if I don't draw it I think I'll fucking kiss you or something and then you'd have the legal fucking right to beat me shitless and if I have to choose...well..." he trails off from his little aria, leaving a silence. Harry has yet to speak. Wait...  
  
"Ron," Harry says like he's been planning this speech his whole life, "the desire isn't one way. I think I want you too, because you're perfect and I love you and I want to show you that I love you. And even though I can't imagine being closer to you, you'd think we've hit the limit, I think I want something else, too. Where you have your pictures, Ron, I have fantasies. I'm addicted to dreams of us."  
  
Ron has released his tension, and looks at Harry with a look of relief, affection and rapture. "If that was any cheesier," he said, enveloping Harry in ginger flecked arms, "we'd have to throw a little fondue party." Harry chuckles and sheds a few tears into Ron's chest. "In any case," Harry's Wheezy says, "I love you, too, so it works out."  
  
That night, they imitated the pictures.  
  
It cuts off rather abruptly, but you like it like that  
  
This is, obviously, a very temperamental piece when it comes to the narration.  
  
Love it? Hate it? Either way, please review it. 


	2. Always A Thief

Title: ...Always a Thief  
  
Rating: Pg-13  
  
Pairing: see previous chapter (you jerk)  
  
Summary: more is revealed beyond the contents of the box  
  
A/N: oh my scrumdiddlyumptious reviewers. I felt guilty after lazily cutting the story short, my little experiment of cutting out all falling action didn't go over too well. But I received reviews that actually made me blush, nay, blush, so here's another chapter, because you want it  
  
A/N: ÜBER WICHTIG! NOTE THAT THIS CHAPTER takes place before the last sentence of the previous chapter, this is an unplanned sequel and I have not the energy to change the end of the last chapter, because I'm a fathead/jerk  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
...Always a Thief  
  
Harry reverted to the state of vegetable imitation he previously was in. Ron's words hit him exactly like he would expect a supersonic train carrying a supply of lead would. It is difficult for Harry Potter to grasp the concept of being loved, because he has never known it. Learning to be loved is like learning a second tongue, it's best done before the first language cements itself into your mind. Unfortunately for Harry, unlove gained a foothold in his mind before love could even make an appearance. So Harry has a hard time understanding that someone is capable of caring for him, the same way you have to force yourself to remember to subject- conjugate those pesky Spanish verbs. Slowly, and unsurely, as if being asked a trick question, Harry speaks, "You...l-love? Me?"  
  
Ron looks with skepticism; he thinks the trick question is coming from Harry. Of course he loves Harry, he just said it. "Well, yeah, Harry," he says is a low voice. Then adds, as an afterthought, "...Shouldn't I?"  
  
Harry can't take this! Why must Ron ask such questions? He wants to scream! NO! Keep cool, stay cool, it's cool, we're all cool, Harry, just chill. "I mean," says the boy who has an entire safe filled of pictures of him to the boy who drew the pictures, "I want you to, because I know I love you, but...can I be loved?"  
  
Why'd you ask him that? He'll say no, Harry, you're not a real person, hello! You're just what everyone sees you as and what they want you to be, not some sort of human being with an identity they make for themself! People don't love you, they only love their own dreams that you represent, you're just a projection of one's own desires and love for themselves! Really, clear as crystal.  
  
Cue Weasley temper. Lights...action.  
  
"Who says you can't?!" Ron looks around the room furiously, wishing the Dursleys or Malfoy or someone to pop out and say, 'Beat me up! I caused Harry's problems!' "Just cause you got a fucking cut and Blarney-level luck? Well, Harry, I can love you just as good as anyone can love anyone else, whether you accept it or not!"  
  
What'd I tell you, Harry. He just wants to say he loves you to show that he can love someone, or at least make it seem that way. Using you! You're just a tool for making him feel better! Now make Dudley's breakfast and FUCKED if you ruin it, boy!  
  
"I don't know if I can be loved," says the bespectacled one, "because I don't know how to accept it. I love you, but can I love you back? Can I show that I love you, or is it something that I'll just hide?"  
  
He is informed that there is one way to find out. Ron says that he loves Harry, and does he love him back? He embraces the boy who thinks he has a heart of stone, who says...  
  
It's a small word. One syllable, written as only four alphabetic letters. Three phonetic letters. You hear it every day. 'Oh, I love this part.' 'I love Chocolate Frogs!' The frequency and lack of meaning with which this word is used is matched only by its rarity and significance. It's interesting to note, that, if there's one thing an English speaker can read on someone's silent lips, it's 'I love you.' You needn't even refer to the words by name, most people catch on instantly when someone mentions 'three small words.' These words have a power on the human soul, a profound influence that can make someone cry, save someone's life, get you laid. True, the words are often used as a substitute for 'good-bye', but this way it almost lacks all meaning. When you say it like you mean it, you can tell. If you were in the dormitory right now, you could tell.  
  
"I love you."  
  
It is Ron's turn to play the veggie. His arms, once around Harry, fall to his sides; the strength in them has fled to his eyes, to keep tears from spilling. Futile, because they course just the same, and Harry pulls Ron closer than any friend ever has, not in physical distance though, in the Other type. The distance that you can't travel, the distance that must, itself, melt away until you and that someone are so close on that ethereal level that you can hear each other's thoughts. That's what it's like now. Words are limited, a creation of man, and thus imperfect. Here, they mean nothing.  
  
When HarryRon splits, unhugging back into Harry and Ron, they wonder how there was ever any question. Love is too weak a word. Love falls short. So does any word in any language that there ever was or ever will be, because this that they have can't even be touched, it can't be felt or tasted but it's there and they know it. Probably, you can only understand it if it has happened to you. Which is why it's different from the things that words can describe.  
  
They've not been in each other's arms for nearly two seconds, a viable eternity. The gap is closed, and their mouths meet  
  
(their first)  
  
in nigh-orgasmic harmony, Harry's cherry lips are candy to Ron, who himself tastes like cinnamon and citrus to Harry. He doesn't think that Cho had a taste other than saliva, perhaps the Ron taste is an illusion. If it is, who cares? Ignorance is bliss. Ron was too fucking edible for Harry to do anything but rub against, their tongues waltzing lazily reflects the lax environment these randy boys inhabit.  
  
Harry is overjoyed at this kiss, he's glad to know that he can be loved, which is, no, was, an important question he thought he'd take to the other side of the sod.  
  
Ron is ecstatic as well, but there's fear in the back of his mind. Already, he's the comical sixth, or even eighth hello. The sixth or eighth finger held up when someone finds it hilarious to point out the Weasley's stereotypical Irish (actually they're Welsh, the red hair is just one of those things, though nobody ever listens when their true ancestry is explained) promiscuity. He's the unremarkable child. Bill's smart, he has that dominant trait to build an identity off of. Charlie's the athlete, his accomplishment is there. Percy is straight-laced and prissy, he fits in the mold of someone with early success. The twins have that thing where they not only finish each other's sentences, but the look exactly alike. Oh, and they make you laugh till the cows come home, and are probably the most admired bad good guys that Hogwarts ever saw. And Ginny, finally, is a girl, the heir to that 50% of the universe. But Ron has nothing to make him stand out in the family. What's left? Nothing, just the nothing that is you, Ronald Weasley. Oh, what's that? Prefect? Done that. Special Awards to the School? Cute, but all you did was sit with an addle-minded pretty-boy as Harry fought a giant snake monster. Dumbledore only gave it to you so you wouldn't cry!  
  
Harry deserved that plaque. Harry, by the way, is the basis of your whole identity. "Identity" being used loosely here, of course, oh parasitic one. You are an extension of him, his possession. And not in the deep- voiced, lust coated "You're mine" way, no; you're simply something he uses to be in more than one place at once. Everyone knows that, you just won't admit it to yourself.  
  
"No you don't." says Ron into Harry's mouth. Harry pauses, looks up, and Ron has to repeat it, have you ever tried talking to someone as you're massaging their tongue?  
  
"I do." Harry whimpers in a small, hurt voice.  
  
"Why?" He doesn't have to say he's not worth it, they both know that's the undertone.  
  
"Because..." Why did you trail off, Potter? You hate him! I was right! You can't answer because you can't love! God, you are such a fucker! He'll kill himself for this! Murderer!  
  
"Because you don't fit any mold. You don't have one thing to define you." Ron is as shocked as Frankenstein's monster in its first few seconds of life. Wasn't that the whole issue? Shouldn't he have something special about him? Maybe not...  
  
"You aren't the stereotypical Smart One, or the Klutz, or the Hero or the Nemesis, no, you're Ron. With people who have such easily seen traits, you don't have to get to know them. I mean, Hermione is smart, so everyone gets her books. Even Nev's Gran sends him things like Remembralls at Christmas. But if I want to know what to wrap up for you, I have to get to know you. You're truly unique, because you're utterly different from everyone else. Because you have to get to know Ron, not his talents."  
  
But Ron draws! Should he stop? NO! No, Ron tells himself, that's far from his biggest thing. It's just a side-dish, a little thing that shows up every now and then. Most of the drawings he used magic to help with anyway, he plugged the pencils into his mind's eye and they copied what was in his head. He reveals this to Harry in a stuttering, apologetic tone. Harry has a look of game show level quizzicality before Ron snaps back to the Talk they were having before he fucked it up. By the way, he thinks he agrees with Harry.  
  
"And I love you, Harry, because you got close enough to see that. So, thank you." Ron mutters feebly, again, words are worthless. But the mouth still helps o convey meaning, the kiss that followed his statement of gratitude was able to show some of what Ron really felt. It's a good, deep kiss, emotions jump onto tongues and lips like neural signals through a synapse. An appropriate example, really, the kiss is all about communication.  
  
Ron, superior is size, strength, and libido, slowly pushes Harry onto Ron's bed, where some of the pictures still lay. His shirt sticks to his body as it condenses sweat, his tie hangs out into Harry's face as their tongues duel, but Harry doesn't care. For an awkward moment, the vertically gifted Ron is craned over at about a ninety degree angle, kissing Harry, who is lying on the bed. They pull apart, get their blood cells red again, and Ron grabs Harry by the shoulders, jumps on the bed, rolling the smaller boy over him, under him again, on the other side of the bed. Harry's hair shows no sign of a tussle, it is invincible, but Ron's sweaty shoulder length locks are brushing Harry's face. Harry doesn't care. He throws, and by throw I mean chuck with all his strength, his glasses, they hit a stone wall but get only a small scratch, that spell Hermione did back in third year (chiefly for the rain) must have a long life.  
  
Ron's trousers tighten as something grows larger, effectively pushing the fabric outward. Harry experiences a similar sensation, but, unlike Ron, he has the presence of mind to kick off his trainers before he tries to get his pants off. There is the completely moment-ruining moment where Harry and Ron have to stop and cooperatively get each other's pants off. As they resume their session, they both realize that within about twenty minutes, if not less, of confessing affection, they are about to hit a triple. This information is merely logged away, they know each other too well to bother with the getting to know someone phase. A few hundred seconds of sweaty kisses and grabs, and then...  
  
Their heads, the ones that haven't met yet, meet. The pleasure is terrible; the unity is earth-shattering. Harry actually bites his lip, only to realize that it was Ron's as well. The two boys pause, and come to realize the Scottish manner in which they are dressed, minimal undergarments but heavy robes. Ron mentions this particular metaphor and Harry laughs as he pulls his robe over his head, where it is stuck until Ron gives it a sharp tug. Clad only in shirts, ties, and boxers, they set out to reduce the previous raiment sum total.  
  
Within seconds, their only clothes are sweat, skin, and each other; they exert a heat that one would notice if you opened the dormitory door for at that second. Which luckily, nobody will do, because that's really, really awkward.  
  
Murphy's Law.  
  
"Cierra!" Ronaked shouts at the door once he finds his wand, the door flies back closed and hits Seamus squarely in the face. He managed to get a bemused "Phoar!" out before he noticed that Ron was on top of someone, namely, his best friend. After that, his look turns to one of, well, pain, because a door hit him in the face before his fine motor nerves could convince his muscles to show any emotion. But Ron is positive that it would have been disgust, revulsion.  
  
"Alla!" Harry's banishing charm does little to put the drawings back in the safe, but he isn't thinking straight, the blood is going anywhere but to his brain. He moans, not in the manner Ron had grown to love in the past few minutes, but in a vocal expression of exasperation. They gather the parchments up quickly, throw their clothes on. Foolishly, Harry hopes nobody sees the graphite on their robes and thinks of something, he barely recalls that not everyone knows about Ron's pictures. At least one thing went unseen, because little of him did. Harry and Ron sit on Ron's bed for a while.  
  
"We should get down there before he says anything." Ron says, 3 minutes and 27 seconds late. Well, assuming it took Seamus zero time to get down the stairs, which is a close estimate, the boy has energy unsurpassed.  
  
"Yeah." Harry agrees.  
  
They descend down the stairs slowly, like damned souls walking the steps to Hell themselves. The late night buzz of the common room is uninterrupted as they appear, save Hermione, Seamus, Dean, Parvati, and Neville, who seemed to be up doing homework. Parvati, at least, is in her pyjamas, Hermione seems quite a hypocrite, she was the one sending everyone else off to bed like a Gestapo Clock-meister.  
  
They stare at Harry and Ron with deep thoughts behind their eyes. Harry and Ron approach them like they've been hit by an Impediment Jinx; their legs seem to take ages to carry them across the common room to their year mates.  
  
Hermione the ever blunt: "So you two are gay?"  
  
The words are hard to agree with, but Harry sees no alternative, he knows Ron isn't just an experiment. He nods his head with only the slightest hesitation.  
  
"I'm not heterosexual or homosexual," says Ron carefully, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "'m harrysexual."  
  
It's not just a play on words. It's true, Ron would never leave Harry for anyone ever in life, ever ever ever. And neither would Harry. They are the only ones in the universe, after all.  
  
Parvati beams at both of them, the two boys take while to realize that Seamus, Dean, and Neville are too. Said Patil twin is just about to say, 'That's so sweet' when a certain bushy haired muggle-born scowls darkly.  
  
"You couldn't have waited half an hour?" It is eleven thirty, everyone notes, and it is also the last day of the month. "You had to let her win at the last possible second?" Let who win? Is this why you were so eager to send us all to bed?  
  
Then Ron gets it. She knew, all along. She knew when Ron was literally bitch-slapped by a monarch made of stone when he was eleven, and when he offered to die on a broken leg when he was thirteen. She knew when she hugged them in the tent after the First Task and said they were both stupid (for fighting). She knew during the second task, too, and when she saw the look of terror in Harry's eyes as he watched Ron become maddened by brains in the Department of Mysteries. She knew, and didn't tell them?!  
  
Ginny comes down the stairs from her common room, either by accident or by previous summons. Then, to the amusement and delight of certain people of the party, Hermione proclaims, turning the head of everyone in the common room.  
  
"They did it everyone! It happened!"  
  
(Not she knew, they all knew)  
  
Harry and Ron blush, everyone is looking at them.  
  
"...And Ginny, I owe you a Galleon."  
  
Fín  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
I have these index cards full of ideas, and this chapter was a good outlet for them  
  
Anyway, I hope you like this, despite what some arguably OOC places. I just think that Ron and Harry have sentimental sides to them.  
  
So, review please!  
  
(maybe if I get petitioned again, I'll do another sequel)  
  
-HFS 


End file.
